Wish not, dear friends, my pain away.
She never saw me. Not once. But I watched her from a distance the whole time.
She drank whiskey, and drank it like a man attempting to summon courage from the bottle. I could see that it was ceremonial at best. The courage was already in her eyes. Hate had ignited it long before, and pouring the whiskey on it merely fanned the flame.
As she left the tavern stumbling, she lit a cigarette. A last drink, a last cigarette, the rights of the condemned. No, it was not courage or hate that enabled her to keep from collapsing. It was resolve. She walked to her execution.
The men she encountered along her way would be too busy staring at the front of her jacket to take note of the bulge beneath her arm. None accosted her, perhaps instinctually recognizing a predator and deciding against taking liberties with the drunken woman walking alone on the darkened street. I followed the predator into the cemetary and watched from a distance as she sought her prey.
As the prey came up behind her, I unbuckled the belt on my trenchcoat. There would be no rescue, this was her audition, whether she knew it or not, however, I would not be caught unaware either.
She moved savagely, her hate was unfocused by alcohol and by nihilism. For a moment, the beast had the upper hand, but overconfidence is always their weakness. It leaves itself open, and she takes the opening. Ah, the sight of the creature turning to dust never fails to delight. She collapses, giggling mirthlessly. I think she may have been injured.
Now is the time to emerge from the shadows. I walk towards her and lean over a tombstone, looking down at her. "I applaud your effort, Justine Cooper, if not your methods."
((Open for Justine))
She drank whiskey, and drank it like a man attempting to summon courage from the bottle. I could see that it was ceremonial at best. The courage was already in her eyes. Hate had ignited it long before, and pouring the whiskey on it merely fanned the flame.
As she left the tavern stumbling, she lit a cigarette. A last drink, a last cigarette, the rights of the condemned. No, it was not courage or hate that enabled her to keep from collapsing. It was resolve. She walked to her execution.
The men she encountered along her way would be too busy staring at the front of her jacket to take note of the bulge beneath her arm. None accosted her, perhaps instinctually recognizing a predator and deciding against taking liberties with the drunken woman walking alone on the darkened street. I followed the predator into the cemetary and watched from a distance as she sought her prey.
As the prey came up behind her, I unbuckled the belt on my trenchcoat. There would be no rescue, this was her audition, whether she knew it or not, however, I would not be caught unaware either.
She moved savagely, her hate was unfocused by alcohol and by nihilism. For a moment, the beast had the upper hand, but overconfidence is always their weakness. It leaves itself open, and she takes the opening. Ah, the sight of the creature turning to dust never fails to delight. She collapses, giggling mirthlessly. I think she may have been injured.
Now is the time to emerge from the shadows. I walk towards her and lean over a tombstone, looking down at her. "I applaud your effort, Justine Cooper, if not your methods."
((Open for Justine))